Mira's Messes
by MiraEyeteeth
Summary: A collection of assorted Pitch-centric drabbles.
1. Light

_A/N- So, I have a bunch of A Home For Fear related ideas that either don't fit into my headcanon for it or are too tonally dark or otherwise just don't fit. But if I don't write my ideas, they sit in my head and fester until I do. So, yeah, here is the dumping ground for those little stragglers of ideas._

_Essentially this is a bunch of disconnected, self-indulgent AUs and drabbles of my own fanfiction. Don't mind me._

_This one is a sappy little drabble I did a while back. Most of these aren't this happy._

* * *

Light.

How he despises light.

For as far back as he can remember he's reveled in the darkness, the night, basking in the fear and uncertainty of all those around him.

But then the sun rises and light shines down, tearing his shadows apart and dissolving fears into nothing more than half-remembered figments.

Even in the darkness of the night, the blasted moon shines down and lends its gentle reassurance, invading his domain, encroaching on his territory.

And the Guardians, when they come, seem to hold pieces of that light inside of them. It shines out through their actions, their smiles and gifts and their care for the children. They nurture that selfsame light within their charges, the little pinpricks on the globe shining so painfully brightly and driving out his shadows and nightmares.

He wishes he could extinguish each and every one, plunge the world back to the way it once was, wrapped in soft, comforting darkness instead of bathed in piercing light.

And he tries, oh how he tries, but he is cast down yet again.

And he becomes aware of the newest addition, Jack Frost.

It may be one of his greatest regrets that he didn't find the boy earlier.

By the time he realizes how similar they are, how much they could give to each other, it's far too late. He's spent too much time with the Guardians. Jack is already infected by that loathsome light.

By the end, the boy is positively _blazing_ with it, so much so that Pitch can hardly bear to even look at him, so bright and full of missed possibilities.

So when Jack comes to find him, months after his defeat, Pitch expects to see that same painful light. To face that blaze again and be burned, harmed at his core. That is all that light ever does to him.

But, surprisingly, it's okay. Because ice doesn't emit its own light, it only reflects it.

And when Jack is with him, there is no light to reflect. Nothing to burn or blind or hurt him. Jack walks unfazed into the dark as easily as the light and picks Pitch up, guides him to a place where the shadows still lay, even within the light of the world. Jack brings him _home_.

He knows better than to hope that Jack might chose to stay in the dark. Ice might not have a light of its own, but dark has nothing for it to reflect, and the boy's spirit is smooth and unblemished and hard, with no cracks for shadows to slip into. Decay and blackness slide off him, finding nothing to cling to on the icy soul. And when Jack steps back into the light, he shines and blazes as brightly as any of them.

But Jack still continues to skate effortlessly between the worlds. And when he steps into the shadows, they no longer seem so barren or lonely. And Pitch thinks maybe, maybe, that was what he needed all along.


	2. Break

_A/N- Hi there, Mira here with your daily reminder that Pitch is not a good person. And that if Jack ever attempted to end their friendship, it would really not end well._

_But don't worry, this scenario won't ever actually happen because Pitch would have to do something really heinous to get Jack to abandon him, and Pitch would never willingly jeopardize his friendship with Jack. It's fun to explore what-ifs, though, isn't it?_

* * *

Jack had stopped visiting him. Pitch had at first managed to convince himself that this was a relief. No aggravating, overexcitable teenager rushing through his hallways, upsetting the Nightmares and causing a ruckus. No one to create hidden slicks of ice or chuck snowballs at him.

No one to break the suffocating, ever-present silence and loneliness of his home.

Pitch took to following Jack around whenever he could, watching from the shadows as the boy went around his tasks as a Guardian. He looked fine, the same as always. Pitch wanted to ask him why he didn't come anymore, but couldn't bring himself to swallow his pride. It wasn't that he wanted Jack to be around, that would be silly and weak.

He didn't try approaching Jack at all. Maybe out of fear of confirming what was worried had happened.

It was when Jack didn't show up for Halloween that Pitch couldn't deny the fact that there was something _wrong_, something missing. He had to talk to Jack.

"Been busy lately, Frost?" He asked nonchalantly, stepping out of the shadows behind the boy.

Jack flinched and whirled, staff up. "Pitch. I thought you knew better than to show your face to me," he said, voice and expression cold.

Pitch's brow furrowed. "I… Jack, what are you talking about?"

"You should know what you did. She was just a little kid, and now…" A sorrowful expression flitted over Jack's face before he shook his head and the icy glare dropped back into place. "I don't ever want to see you again, boogeyman. Next time I do, you'll wish you never crawled out of that hole of yours!"

Pitch choked. "Jack, ple-" The Guardian was already gone in a whirlwind of snow and ice.

What had just happened? Why? Why would Jack say those things? He couldn't be serious, he couldn't, no. It was all just a joke. A prank, Jack would come back in a second and laugh at him for falling for it.

But he didn't come back. And the terrible finality of his words struck Pitch like a physical blow. He clutched his chest desperately. It felt like when a child ran through him, magnified a hundred times. Like the rejection at Antartica, but a dozen times more painful. It felt like he was being torn apart, ripped to shreds from the inside out. Like all his innards had been scooped out and replaced with molten lead. Like the world was falling to pieces around him or maybe it was just him that was falling apart, he couldn't tell anymore.

It couldn't be, no. Jack couldn't turn away, he couldn't. Not again. He was the only one who understood, who walked the same path Pitch had. His other half, the missing piece of himself. Cold and dark. They couldn't be separate, Jack couldn't hate him, no, no, no. This wasn't happening, it was _wrong._

Everything was wrong. The _world_ was wrong.

Yes. That's what it was. This wasn't right. This didn't fit. Jack, his Jack, wouldn't abandon him, no. It was all the Guardians' fault. They had turned Jack against him. Yes, that was right. Poor Jack had been taken in by their lies, convinced that the boogeyman wasn't really his friend, was just a heartless monster.

…Well, who was he to disappoint the Guardians?

Jack would see. Once the Guardians were gone, he'd come to his senses. Once Jack had no one but Pitch, he'd see how much their friendship was worth. Then he'd never, ever leave. He'd beg for Pitch to forgive him.

And he would. Of course he would. What are friends for, after all?

* * *

Even Pitch had always been hesitant to harm children, at least physically. Terrifying them, traumatizing them, emotionally scarring them, that was all fine. Part of the job. But dead children didn't fear anything at all, and what was the fun in that?

Of course, this little quirk of his, this weakness, had been what had led to his defeat after all. He'd postured and threatened for too long, staying his hand from snuffing out the last light in a brutish and uncivilized way. At some level, he'd hoped that the threat would be enough to scare the child into submission, so he wouldn't have to follow through. And he'd paid for that.

No more. To defeat the Guardians this time, he had need of an army. Nightmares weren't good enough, he needed more fearlings.

And besides, the belief and fear of a million or a _hundred_ million children couldn't compare to his connection with Jack Frost.

So he'd gone to visit his believers. The children had jumped and yelped at his appearance _(as they should, oh if only they knew…)_ but they'd calmed down easily enough when he gave them a disarming smile and asked if they wanted to come play a game with him.

"Like Halloween?" They would ask.

"Of course. Just like Halloween," he'd lie with a smile, before whisking them away.

* * *

He'd forgotten just how sweet pure, unmitigated horror was, fear that wasn't diluted by the certainty of safety, of being able to go home where everything was fine again.

He'd forgotten how much he loved to hear those last, strangled screams before the children finally succumbed to the darkness and joined his army as fearlings.

* * *

The disappearance of so many children didn't go unnoticed, not by the Guardians or the human authorities, either. But he'd been prepared for that. Hiding the entrance to his lair was child's play, his realm of shadows mutable as always to his will. Avoiding the Guardians when he ventured out to collect new recruits was a little more challenging, but not by very much. There were only five of them, after all, to guard six continents worth of children. And while he lead the fools on a merry chase across the globe, the fear instilled by the abduction of so many young ones spread like wildfire through adults and children alike. He drew on it, growing stronger with every passing evening.

As promised, Toothiana was the first one he targeted. It was really very unwise of them to split their forces to try to cover the most ground. It made it dreadfully easy for Pitch to ambush her with his hordes of fearlings and Nightmares, subdue her and drag her down, down into the shadows.

They had tried to stick together after the loss of one of their members, but their soft spot for the children of the world was their undoing. Luring them away one at a time took skill, finesse, but Pitch wasn't short of either, nor of patience.

North fell next, then Bunnymund, and finally the Sandman.

He couldn't kill them, of course. The downside of having immortal enemies. But it was simple enough to catch them when they were alone and drag them away, shut them up in cages and chains and prisons, burying them so deep in his domain that no ray of light from the sun or the moon would ever reach them.

He hadn't bothered being showy, hadn't bothered gloating or celebrating. They were in his way, and he wanted them out of it as quickly and efficiently as possible. He couldn't care less what happened to them after that. Or what happened to the rest of the world. All of his focus had collapsed around a single point.

It was surprising, really, how effective he could be when he didn't waste all that energy on appearances or enjoyment. There was only room from heartless, brutal efficiency, because there was only one thing that mattered now. Jack. And now the poor boy was all alone. But not for long.

* * *

Pitch curled around the shivering, hiccupping boy in his grasp, stroking his hair gently, reassuringly. The screams and the insults and the thrashing had given way to sobbing, and even that had tapered off as physical and emotional exhaustion swamped the winter spirit. Through it all Pitch had held Jack, firmly but gently, oh so gently.

"Shh, shh. It's okay now. I've got you. You're safe," he whispered comfortingly. Jack didn't seem to listen but the boy had always been stubborn. It didn't matter. Soon enough he would see the truth, come to his senses. Pitch was nothing if not patient.

They were huddled together in one of Pitch's cages, piled with snow to make Jack more comfortable. The boy's staff lay propped against a wall, safely outside of reach. He hadn't wanted to take it away, but Jack had kept striking it against the bars and Pitch was concerned it would break. Jack seemed to be hurt the last time it was broken, and Pitch couldn't bear to see him in pain.

It was for his own good.

All around the cage the shadows and Nightmares and fearlings writhed and hissed, but they did not dare to touch the boy or his staff. Nothing would ever, ever be allowed to harm the winter spirit. He'd see the rest of the world shattered and salted and burned before anything would take his Jack away from him.

"I'll never hurt you, Jack," Pitch promised. "And I'll never let you go…"


	3. Past

_A/N- In my headcanon for A Home For Fear, Pitch is an earth-native fear spirit and doesn't have Kozmotis' background. If I did decide to incorporate the book canon into my fanfic, this is essentially how it would go._

* * *

Pitch stared blankly down at the locket that had been thrust into his hands by a certain frost spirit.. "Jewelry, Jack? Really? Do I seem like the type?"

"Don't you recognize it at all? It was yours, once."

Pitch snorted. "I don't know who sold you that load of crock, but frankly I'm a little surprised you bought it," he drawled, dropping the locket back into the Guardian's hands.

"I know about the Golden Age, Pitch," Jack said as the boogeyman started to turn away.

Pitch faltered, the name setting of something stirring far in the back of his mind. He shoved it down. "Doesn't ring a bell, I'm afraid," he said offhandedly.

"I know about the Lunanoffs. About the Moon Clipper. About the Golden General," Jack went on.

That last title struck a chord in Pitch and he froze, feeling a sudden surge of _hatred_ stronger even than that which he felt towards the Guardians. The hidden thoughts stirred. Pitch whirled on Jack, features twisted into a snarl. "Shut up!"

Jack met his gaze with his own icy, resolute one. "I know about Kozmotis Pitchiner."

That name made the levees break. Memories crashed over him like a tidal wave, leaving Pitch reeling.

It was bizarre, remembering the _Before_. His thoughts were fragmented, alien. Individual concepts were fuzzy and indistinct, and all he knew was an overarching feeling of insatiable, ravenous _hunger_. The pitiful creatures that fled before him, before _them_, their screams and terror a feast to his senses, but it was a taste that only whetted his appetite. More. They needed more. They needed to grow and feed and _consume_ until all that was left was the vast dark emptiness of the void.

And then, and then the creatures struck back, tried to fight. Warriors with weapons and armor that gleamed with starlight, forcing back the darkness, daring to stand against them. And the worst of them all, the Golden General.

How they _hated _him.

He harried them at every turn, blazing with light and purpose and righteous fury. He cut swathes through their ranks, stood in the way of their conquest, ruined everything.

And around his neck swung _that locket_.

"No…" The word dropped unbidden from Pitch's lips and he felt his knees give out beneath him.

There was light. Burning, agonizing light. Blinding pain, being forced backwards, rounded up, penned in. Rage, at first, at being denied their prey, their _feast_. Then came scheming, cunning, and cooperation. They knew the one who held them in this prison, and they turned all their focus onto breaking him.

For years the hated enemy stood strong, stalwart, unaffected, but they did not falter in their efforts, their whispers and tricks of the light.

And finally, a chink in that golden armor was found. The general's mental defences finally fell, they were able to worm their way inside his strange, singular mind, sift through unknown emotions and sentiment to find the secrets of this man. The locket, they learned, was what had given him the strength to defy them, or rather, it was the representation inside of it. His daughter, his driving force.

But played right, every strength was a weakness waiting to be exploited.

The screams were perfect. They had been plucked right from the enemy's mind, after all.

The terror and desperation was the sweetest thing they had tasted in a long time, but that sensation quickly paled to the rush of air from the doors being opened, the vicious, burning joy of freedom regained.

They fell upon the enemy in a frenzy. He would be the first consumed.

But the enemy had one last trick, one last way to stymie them, and instead of being consumed, they were merged, dark and light mixing to form grey shadows. They tried to disentangle themselves, but it was too late. They were dragged in, blended together, trapped inside this shell, this new prison. They were altered, warped, infected with _humanity_.

A single scream of rage echoed through the darkness.

The flood slowly ebbed, and Pitch dragged air into his lungs. "Did you really think that _this_ would push me into joining up with you lot? Truly?" he rasped from the floor, his head buried in his hands.

Jack swallowed, taking a step closer to the crumpled boogeyman."You _were_ a good guy. There's no reason why you can't be one again, Pi- Kozmotis."

Pitch laughed, a slightly hysterical edge to the sound. "You don't seem to understand, boy. You aren't speaking with Kozmotis Pitchiner." He raised his head, a gash of a smile splitting his face, baring jagged teeth. "You're talking to his murderer."


	4. Duality

_A/N- Just a silly little lyrical thing, apropos of nothing._

* * *

Jack Frost was brilliant smiles and sunlight glittering on freshly-fallen snow. He was that surge of adrenaline that came from barreling down an icy slope at a breakneck pace. He was the mischievous joy that came from packing a loose snowball together and taking aim at your friend while their back was turned. He was the competitive spirit that turned a game of hockey into a battle of epic proportions in the minds of the players. He was rosy cheeks and chilled hands wrapped around hot chocolate with marshmallows. He was sleigh rides and the fast, easy grace of ice skating. He was laughter like silver bells as children and adults alike frolicked through his silver-white wonderland.

Jack Frost was light.

Pitch Black was soft, quiet, creeping dusk. He was lengthening shadows and the way the hair stood up on the back of your neck. He was the monster that lurked in the darkness at the bottom of your cellar stairs, the terror of the unknown. He was the fear that inspired hatred of all things different. He was the anxiety that kept people from reaching out to each other. He was paralysis in the face of atrocity. He was helplessness and hopelessness and overwhelming dread.

Pitch Black was darkness.

Jack Frost was cold, long, winter nights. He was the wind that howled through trees and down alleyways, the snow that fell silently and coated everything in a deep, muffling blanket. He was bare trees and withering flowers, he was chilled and hungry desperation. He was pneumonia and frostbite and slick, invisible ice. He was the rumbling thunder of an avalanche, the slow, inexorable creak of a glacier, the sudden snap of thin ice. He was slumber and hibernation and sleep that stretched on long past the winter months.

Jack Frost was death.

Pitch Black was the way your heart hammered when the monster jumped out at the screen in the horror movie. He was the thrill that made people seek out haunted houses and shark diving and bungee jumping. He was the shouted warning in the pit of your stomach when someone's smile wasn't quite right, when they were far too interested in getting you alone. He was wariness of busy streets and strange animals. He was fight or flight, he was the instinct that has been with humanity since the beginning of time. He was the sharp intake of breath, the trembling of your limbs, the pounding of your heart in your chest that all sang of being terrified and exhilarated and wonderfully, gloriously _alive_.

Pitch Black was life.


End file.
